Heirs of the Body

by Carola Dunn

  Daisy remembered their first meeting, with Martha in floods of tears. Was her change of spirits attributable to the progressing pregnancy, or could she, as Alec suggested, have heard from her Sammy?

  Edgar, unsurprisingly, declined to accompany the party. The children, turning up for breakfast in spite of their earlier raid on the kitchen, decided they’d rather hunt insects with him than waste a beautiful morning in viewing fusty old buildings.

  “I’ll keep an eye on them,” Edgar promised.

  Ben, who had lost his bandage already, looked disappointed. Obviously the decision was Derek and Belinda’s. They had both seen more than once what Worcester had to offer, but Ben might never have another chance to visit an ancient cathedral city. Daisy resolved to arrange a visit later, with a promise of ice cream and buns to lure the others.

  Sir Nigel having set an appointment at noon, Geraldine suggested that after their various wanderings they should meet for lunch at one at the Talbot, just opposite the cathedral. “Alec, if you wouldn’t mind driving the Vauxhall, there will be plenty of room for everyone.”

  “I’ll take my hire car,” said Raymond brusquely. “Smethwick, the driver, has been sitting about for three days doing nothing at my expense. And that’s just since I came here. I’ve had the same man since I arrived in England. A cushy job he’s had of it.”

  As no one else seemed about to volunteer, Frank offered to go with him. Alec frowned. Daisy wondered if he was worried that they might kill each other en route. If so, she didn’t know what she could do to stop them, but she was about to suggest keeping them company when Geraldine said, “In that case, Truscott can drive the Vauxhall. So why don’t you go with Raymond, Alec?”

  She thus relieved Daisy of the responsibility of keeping the men from one another’s throats as far as Worcester. Though Daisy still couldn’t see the cheerful, easygoing Frank Crowley as a murderer, his having brought Ben all the way to England at considerable expense showed him to have more determination than was apparent.

  The Vauxhall and the Daimler duly came round to the portico to pick everyone up. Geraldine told the chauffeurs to take them to the Edgar Tower, the fourteenth-century gatehouse to the cathedral close.

  When they arrived, she instructed her guests to visit the cathedral first, in the school matron voice that was as effective as the dowager’s grande dame voice, as Daisy was amused to note. Even Laurette trailed through the gate with the group.

  The ancient building inspired awe in Raymond and Frank, and even in Vincent and Laurette, though they were more accustomed to historical surroundings. In Daisy, familiarity inspired not contempt, but comfort. She had grown up visiting the cathedral quite frequently, for christenings, weddings, and funerals, and for the Three Choirs Festival. Her favourite spot was the sepulchre of Bad King John, whose sinister reputation had fascinated her as a child.

  She had a job to do now. She had to spread people out so that the others wouldn’t notice when Alec went off to see the chief constable. Though Geraldine having an appointment in Worcester would arouse no curiosity, the same could not be said of Alec.

  If someone was up to something—which wasn’t entirely clear—their suspicions might be awakened. Before they left Hampstead, Martha had been asked not to mention that Alec was a copper. However, the Fairacres servants knew, so the chances were that all the guests knew by now.

  In which case, they had a pretty poor opinion of his competence, or they wouldn’t be trying whatever they were trying.

  Having thoroughly confused herself, Daisy suggested that the men might like to climb the tower or visit the eleventh-century crypt.

  “I’m afraid I’m avoiding steps when I can,” said Vincent, waving the walking stick he was still dependent on.

  “Oh yes. You might like to inspect the effigy of King John.”

  “King John!” Laurette muttered scornfully.

  “I thought you and I would go and admire the stained glass in the lady chapel—Victorian but beautiful—so that we can tell Geraldine we did,” she whispered to the disgruntled woman. “Then we’ll go shopping, I promise.”

  The sun shone in through the delicately colourful east window of the lady chapel. Laurette made it plain that she’d much rather be looking through the windows of the best department store in town. She took out her compact and, peering into the small round mirror, powdered her nose.

  Daisy delayed her as long as was humanly possible. When they returned to the nave, none of the men was in sight. Hoping Alec had managed to slip away unnoticed, Daisy wished she could, too.

  An hour or so later, she and Laurette were walking briskly back along The Tything amidst a crowd of bustling shoppers, many bearing baskets, some pushing prams or accompanied by small children. Laurette complained about the Worcester shops’ lack of any clothes worthy of purchase.

  Shopping with her had been a revelation to Daisy. Lucy always dressed in the height of fashion; attaining it was a long drawn-out process that bored Daisy to tears, involving models and seamstresses and milliners and much discussion of everything but cost. Laurette, on the other hand, swept through the ready-to-wear racks with an inerrant eye for what would both suit her and fit her, at a reasonable price. Her aim was not fashion but a businesslike chic.

  That was the way to do it, Daisy thought. Now all she needed was the inerrant eye.…

  Not that she had any way to judge Laurette’s claim of inerrancy, as she hadn’t actually bought any clothes, just sighed for the shops of London and Paris.

  They crossed Castle Street and went straight on along The Foregate. A tram passed them as they walked under the railway bridge. Ahead was the busy intersection known as The Cross. Some traffic, including trams and an occasional horse dray, continued along the High Street, some turned left into St. Swithin’s Street, and some turned right to go down Broad Street to the bridge over the Severn. A white-sleeved policeman on point duty managed the flow with an almost balletic grace.

  As Daisy and Laurette approached, he held up his hand to stop the tram that had passed them to allow another, coming up Broad Street, to turn left. Suddenly he waved his arms frantically and blew several piercing blasts on his whistle.

  People started screaming and shouting. The trams both came to a halt, as did cars, vans, lorries, motorbicycles, and everything else on the road except for errand boys on pedal bikes. They weaved through the rest, necks craned to see what was going on. Some pedestrians on the pavements held back, others ghoulishly pressed forward.

  “Run over by a tram!” said a woman pushing past Daisy and Laurette. She sounded hopeful.

  Daisy was relieved that Laurette wasn’t one of the gawkers. It would have been too frightful to have a relative—even if just by marriage—who gaped at accidents.

  Accidents. Another accident. Sheer coincidence of course. In the middle of the busy city, the odds against one of the party from Fairacres being involved were enormous.

  All the same, she was not displeased when the press of people moving forward forced them to go along with the flow. Not that she wanted to see what had happened, but she did want reassurance that no one she knew was involved. A gruesome rhyme Gervaise used to chant to tease Violet circled in her mind:

  “Oh look, Mama, pray what is that,

  “That looks like strawberry jam?”

  “Hush, hush, my dear, ’tis poor papa,

  “Run over by a tram.”

  Several more bobbies came running from all directions. Some started to clear away the throng.

  “Nothing to see, ladies and gentlemen. Keep moving, please. Move along there.”

  In any case, as Daisy and Laurette approached, people started to disperse, talking and shaking their heads. To Daisy they seemed disappointed or relieved, not shocked.

  Then two policemen came round the end of the nearer tram, supporting between them a large, hatless man.…

  “Raymond! Let me through, please. He’s my cousin!”

  A youth came out of the nearest shop carr
ying a chair, which he placed on the pavement against the wall. “Here, set the gentleman down to catch his breath.”

  Looking dizzy and disoriented, Raymond slumped onto the chair. As Daisy reached him, he dropped his head into his hands.

  “He’s my cousin,” she repeated to the bobby who stepped forward to stop her. “Is he badly hurt?”

  “Not a scratch, madam, saving on his hands from the cobbles. Gentleman stumbled but summun shoved him aside from the tram tracks. Could o’ bin nasty, else.”

  “He didn’t get a knock on the head?”

  “Don’t b’lieve so, madam, but you better arst him yoursel’. The lady’s the gemmun’s cousin, Jerry,” he introduced her to his colleague, who was bending solicitously over Raymond, notebook in hand, asking his name.

  “He’s Raymond Dalrymple, officer. He’s a guest of Lord and Lady Dalrymple at Fairacres, as I am. I’m Mrs. Fletcher, if you want it for your report.”

  “No need for that, thank you, madam.”

  “We’re going to meet the rest of the party at the Talbot. Mr. Raymond’s car is there, and his chauffeur. Perhaps someone could—”

  “Here, you!” the constable called to the boy, who lingered in the shop door. “Run over to the Talbot, lad, and have them send Mr. Raymond Dalrymple’s car for him.”

  The trams had already clanged away and the flow of traffic resumed. Most of the police had returned to their beats, but one brought Raymond his hat and his cane, broken in half.

  “’Ere you go, sir. I ’opes you don’t need the stick for walking.”

  Raymond raised his head. “No no.” He reached for his felt hat and settled it on his head, then snatched it off again. “It hurts. Someone pushed…”

  “Yes, sir, someone pushed you out of the way and lucky for you it was.”

  “Raymond, did you bang your head?” Daisy leant over him, examining his balding scalp for bruising.

  He looked at her vacantly, apparently finding it difficult to focus. “Daisy? No, I didn’t.… Someone pushed…”

  Though she couldn’t find any marks suggestive of a blow, she was worried. “We’d better get you to a doctor.”

  A shake of his head turned into a wince. He dropped the hat and clutched his head. “No. Home. Go to bed.”

  Arguing seemed inadvisable. Daisy decided to go with him, and if he was no better by the time they reached Fairacres, she would ring up Dr. Hopcroft.

  The bronze Daimler arrived at last, the shop boy lounging happily in the seat beside the chauffeur. He bounced out and he, the chauffeur, and the one remaining bobby vied to help Raymond into the car. Daisy tipped him, as Raymond showed no sign of doing so, and he handed her in next.

  Laurette, who had been hanging back from what she appeared to consider a disgraceful scene, came up to the car. The bobby looked at her askance.

  “Another cousin,” Daisy told him. To Laurette she said, “I’m going to go back to Fairacres with Raymond.”

  “You can take me to the Talbot, n’est-ce pas?” Laurette joined them in the car. “I will explain to the others what has happened.”

  “Good idea.”

  They dropped her off. Raymond remained slumped in the corner, eyes closed. Before they were halfway back to Fairacres, he started to breathe stertorously, an unpleasant cross between a snort and a gasp. Alarmed, Daisy spoke to him. He didn’t respond.

  She listened for a few minutes, then reached for the speaking tube. “Smethwick?”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Mr. Raymond seems to be very ill. I think we’d better take him straight to the doctor, in Upton-upon-Severn. Just stay on this road.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I don’t know his address.”

  “We’ll just have to ask, madam. You’re all right, are you?”

  “So far, thank you.” After all, having hysterics or fainting would hardly alter the situation for the better. “Oh, by the way, I’ve been wanting to thank you for trying to help me when I had that puncture a few weeks ago, and for sending the RAC man to the rescue. The blue Gwynne Eight?”

  “I thought it was you, madam. My pleasure, I’m sure.”

  Daisy sat back. The horrible sound had stopped and Raymond’s chest no longer heaved at each breath. Perhaps he’d be all right just going to bed? Should she take his pulse?

  Reluctantly she slid across the leather seat. His breathing was so quiet she couldn’t hear it at all. She couldn’t see his chest rising and falling. When she lifted his wrist, his hand flopped downward. His skin felt clammy.

  No pulse. The blank stare wasn’t a stare because those fixed eyes were seeing nothing.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Daisy’s heart stood still. For a moment she couldn’t speak, then she cried out, “Stop!” so loud that Smethwick heard her, although she didn’t use the tube.

  He glanced back, his expression startled. A hundred yards farther on, he pulled into a farm gateway. “Madam?”

  She opened the door and jumped out, her one thought was to escape from the immediate vicinity of Raymond’s body. “I can’t find a pulse,” she blurted out as Smethwick, alarmed, also sprang out of the Daimler. “I think he’s dead.”

  “Let me check,” he said in a businesslike way. “I drove an ambulance in the war. Flat feet.”

  He climbed into the back of the car, leaving Daisy thinking sad thoughts of her fiancé, Michael, who had likewise been an ambulance driver during the war but had not returned.

  “You’re right, he’s gone.” The chauffeur emerged from the interior. “Had an accident in Worcester, did he?”

  “Yes, but the police seem to think he just fell, and he himself said he hadn’t hit his head.”

  “Heart attack. Or stroke. He’s the age and figure for it.”

  “He seemed so vigorous!”

  “Oh well, you never can tell. I s’pose I better lay him out on the seat. Otherwise he’s going to slide off when we start moving. If you don’t mind sitting in front with me, madam.”

  “Yes, please!” said Daisy.

  Once the Raymond’s body was in a decently recumbent position, Smethwick fetched a car rug from the boot to spread over him. The cheerful red-and-yellow tartan was altogether inappropriate, but as the chauffeur said, “Beggars and corpses can’t be choosers.” He returned to his seat behind the steering wheel. “I haven’t driven around with a stiff behind me—if you’ll pardon the expression—since the Armistice. Where to now, madam?”

  “Oh dear, I expect we ought to take him to Dr. Hopcroft, even though it’s too late. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Right you are. I’ve got to find a post office and send a wire to my company, too. The boss isn’t going to be happy.”

  “If he didn’t pay in advance, I daresay Lord Dalrymple will cover the expense.” She only half listened to Smethwick’s response. She was wondering whether Raymond’s death fitted into the pattern of accidents—assuming there was in fact a pattern—and if so, how.

  From what the copper had said, it sounded as if someone had pushed him aside at the last minute, possibly saving his life. It was slightly odd that the Good Samaritan hadn’t stayed to make sure he was all right and to enjoy the kudos. Perhaps he’d been in a tearing hurry, or perhaps just shy.

  He might yet be found. Daisy had learnt from experience the sequence of events that Raymond’s death would lead to. As he had not, to her knowledge, been under the care of a doctor, and no medical practitioner had been present, an inquest would be necessary. In the circumstances, after Alec’s hobnob with the CC, the coroner would surely require an autopsy. If there was anything fishy about Raymond’s death, a police investigation would follow.

  The police—

  “Hell!” Smethwick jammed his feet on the brake and clutch. The car slithered to a halt in a few inches of brown water. Ahead, the lane was under water as far as they could see, ripples spreading round the next curve. “Begging your pardon, madam. I was took by surprise.”

  “Never mind that. Upto
n must be flooded again.”

  “It’s not just a big puddle, or a water-splash?”

  “No, it’ll be deeper farther on. We can’t drive into the village. Blast! I wonder what we should do? I don’t want to dash about trying to find another doctor.”

  “Go back to Fairacres and use the telephone.”

  “I dare say we ought to take him back to Worcester, to the hospital or the police station. But I must say, I don’t feel like spending any more time in the car with the poor man than I must.” She shuddered.

  “Back to Fairacres and telephone.”

  “I expect you’re right.” She brightened. “I’ll ring up the Talbot and speak to Alec. My husband,” she elucidated.

  Smethwick grinned. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of Scotland Yard.”

  So even the visiting hire car driver knew! Daisy wondered why Alec bothered to try to keep quiet about his profession. Not that she was really in any doubt: A policeman’s wife was almost equally subject to the phenomenon of people falling silent when she entered a room. Except when he was working, life was simpler if he vaguely introduced himself as a civil servant.

  His being a copper didn’t seem to bother Smethwick, and the chauffeur’s awareness didn’t necessarily mean all the heirs knew, Daisy assured herself.

  He put the car into reverse gear and they motored backwards up the lane. Hedged and without verges, it was too narrow for the big Daimler to do a three-point turn. They soon came to a cart track, where Smethwick, muttering about mud, backed in and drove out forwards. Ten minutes later they reached Fairacres.

  Daisy was so anxious to talk to Alec, she didn’t wait for the chauffeur to open the car door for her. Getting out, she said, “I may want you to fetch—Oh no, I suppose not.”

  “No, madam. In fact, I was thinking I better get the car out of the sun.”

  “Oh dear, isn’t it awful.…” Suddenly Daisy was on the edge of tears. Poor Raymond had been a relative, after all, even if she hadn’t liked him much. She swallowed. “You wanted to send your employers a telegram. I’ll have Ernest let you know when I’m finished on the phone.”